


Some Die Hard

by Kahvi



Category: Die Hard (Movies)
Genre: Chocolate, Crack, Helicopters, Other, Plane Crashes, Snakes, nunchakus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:01:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember when we first met John McClane? This is some time later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Die Hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Portponky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portponky/gifts).



> For Portponky, possibly the greatest writer of our time.

John McClane had died many times, each time harder than the rest, but this wasn't one of those times (it was another one of them). Standing among his collection of exploding helicopters, he surveyed the scene of the crime (the crime was that someone had crashed a collection of exploding helicopters into the New York City Airport). "Damn," he muttered, adding a suitably witty quip that made everyone laugh. 

"Dammit McClane," said the chief of police who was probably his boss or something, "you're a menace. This is the third time this month that you've done this, which is really incredibly annoying." He wasn't laughing; he was crying angry tears into his beard. 

"Sorry," said John McClane. "Motherfucker," he added placatingly.

"I have never been so wrong in all my life," said Thorin (the chief of police or whatever) and they hugged for exactly three point one seconds, which was just over average. "Anyway," he added addingly, "there are some terrorists."

"I know," winked McClane. He did. He did know.

Because the helicopters were all crashed, they had to charter a small jet to get to the terrorists, but the PLOT TWIST was that the terrorists were actually flying the plane, but this will only be revealed later. So anyway:

McClane and Allen were consulting their 1913 Bradshaw, but it didn't have any information about terrorists. Allan was never heard from again. 

McClane ordered a pineapple juice with a cocktail onion and drank it badassedly while musing on the problem of terrorists. The man who gave it to him suddenly whipped out a GUN and smacked him right in the face with it, or he WOULD HAVE if McClane hadn't expertly dodged him and jammed his hands into the pineapple juice.

"Gaaaah - my fingerprints!!" Vouchafed the terrorist.

"AHA - that proves you're not a terrorist! Terrorists would be GLAD to get rid of their fingerprints or sometimes they wouldn't have them to begin with, 'cause baby they were born that way," McClane sarcastically grinned.

"Aaaaaarrrghhh," said the terrorist and died from logic. 

McClane grabbed some of the snakes that had been stuffed inexpertly into the overhead lockers, briefly apologized to them, and snake-nunchakued his way to the cockpit. 

"You're not allowed in the cockpit," ejaculated the pilot, which was unforunate as the ejector seat was activated by ironic dialog modifiers. But that's all right as he was evil, and had a parachute. Which was also evil. 

"I miss my wife," McClane brooded. 

"STFU," said the terrorist, which was impressive as that's not really a word. McClane snake-nunchakoed him absent-mindedly while landing the plane safely. (He remembered from last time, except he didn't remember not to crash it.) 

Thorin was waiting for him at the airport with a medal that the rest of the dwarves had made out of very shiny metal. It said Yippee-ki-yay in large, friendly letters, and smelled like a chocolate orange. McClane resisted the urge to nibble at it. 

"Thank you for dying hardereded," Thorin mutterned. 

"I didn't... I died... HARDEST." 

It was a Christmas miracle.


End file.
